


wherein sherlock holmes gives the best/worst handjobs ever.

by kidcomrade



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, also sherlock holmes being sherlock holmes, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:35:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kidcomrade/pseuds/kidcomrade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Holmes' thin hands are as exacting as ever, even now: they poke and prod without restraint." See title. Sincerest apologies to Mr. Conan Doyle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wherein sherlock holmes gives the best/worst handjobs ever.

"The flow of blood, here," remarks Holmes, maintaining speed, position of wrist, the even pressure of grip, "it is decidedly unusual for a man of your age, my dear Watson, congested, even; you _are_ taking care of yourself, are you not, Doctor? And, of course, by 'take care of', I do mean..."

"P--perhaps--” Watson stammers, “perhaps now is not quite the time."

"Nonsense," he retorts. “There's hardly ever a bad time for a little experiment.” Mid-handjob no exception, apparently. And just like that, Holmes releases his hold on John Watson's erection all too abruptly. "Now, shall we see the effect if I do not--"

"Holmes, _please!_ "

Watson, flushed bright red to the ears, squirms in his chair; the sudden absence, so close to his climax, leaves him _aching,_ pre-cum dripping down the length of his cock. Holmes, crouched on the ground and between his knees, chuckles. Watson swears the man's quiet laughter is nearly sinister.

“If you insist.”

He resumes. Holmes' thin hands are as exacting as ever, even now: they poke and prod without restraint. The small thumb works around, over, gently rubbing the head; the other fingers, then, curl around the shaft and smoothly travel up and down, jerking Watson with the steadiest of motions. The strokes are as regular as a heartbeat. His methodology is hardly erotic—Watson can't even tell if Holmes is deriving any sort of sexual pleasure from this at all—but he'll be damned if it isn't effective. Raw heat builds in the pit of his gut as he draws ever closer, breathing heavily. 

A low moan bubbles up from the back of his throat and he digs his fingers into the edges of the chair's seat. (Sherlock raises an eyebrow. He ignores it.) “Holmes, I--” 

“Ah! Yes, of course; do get on with it.”

And the hawklike eyes of Sherlock Holmes pierce him right through, gazing up expectantly and gauging his own expressions so _critically_ , even as he cries out with the force of his orgasm.


End file.
